


The Return of Proudwing

by stannisismyhamlet



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-10-01 18:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stannisismyhamlet/pseuds/stannisismyhamlet
Summary: A World War Two AU in which Stannis buys a lighthouse, starts a wild bird refuge, meets Sansa, and does his duty in the evacuation of Dunkirk.Based on Paul Gallico's "The Snow Goose".





	1. Chapter One: The Lighthouse Has a New Owner

**Author's Note:**

> On the 75th anniversary of D-Day, I re-read a couple of my favorite World War Two themed stories. It struck me that Paul Gallico's "The Snow Goose" would be a good basis for a Stansa fic. Once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it, so here it is. Being the sap that I am, I gave my version a happy ending though.
> 
> Copyright is GRRM's and Paul Gallico's by rights, as Stannis Baratheon would point out.

News that the decommisioned lighthouse - nicknamed Storm's End by the locals - and its surrounding lands had finally found a buyer set the sleepy village of Summerhall-by-the-Sea abuzz. Davos Seaworth, a local fisherman who supplemented his income as a handyman, was hired to make necessary repairs and to purchase basic items of furniture to make the old lighthouse habitable.

When questioned over pints of bitters in the village pub, however, Davos could not shed any light on his new employer beyond the fact that he was a gentleman from the city who intended to live in the lighthouse year round. That came as a surprise to the villagers; to them, city folk were like migrating birds in reverse who showed up in the summer then winged their way back to their uppity urban lives once the winds of winter blew in. Davos didn't even know his employer's name since it was Dr. Stark, the village physician, who had hired him on behalf of the new owner.

Fortunately, Jeyne Poole, the Starks' housemaid, was able to contribute the little tidbit she gleaned from eavesdropping while serving at the Stark breakfast table. "Doctor told Mrs. Stark that the gentleman''s been hurt bad in an automobile accident. Seems 'is own doctor's an old friend of Dr. Stark and wrote for 'elp to set 'im up with some fresh sea air and a change of scenery." As that was all the information that the villagers could garner on the new lighthouse owner, they soon fell back on their usual topics of the harvest and fishing hauls, punctuated in this summer of 1938 by the ominous talk of war brewing in continental Europe.

Hardly a month later, a stranger made his way down the village main street. He walked with a pronounced limp, dragging his right leg behind him. He was tall and broad in the shoulders but gaunt, his clothes flapping loosely about him as if he had suffered through a grave illness or starvation. His hat was pulled down low over his brow, a barrier against eye contact or greeting. He made straight for the village's only general store which also served as its post office, and transacted his business with gossipy Mrs. Tyrell, the village postmistress, in record time, for he was soon back in the street and headed out of the village as quickly as his lame leg could manage.

The stranger 's brief appearance in the village would have gone unnoticed if it wasn't for Mrs. Tyrell's need to vent about her latest customer to everyone who crossed her path that day.

"Well, I never," she fumed, "there I was, welcoming him to the village and asking after how he's liking the lighthouse and there he was, just clenching his jaw and barking his orders for supplies and mail at me like he's some army commander going into battle! And when I tried to invite him to join in some of the fun we get up to with our dances and theatricals, oh lord! You should have heard him grind his teeth!" Mrs. Tyrell squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered, as if trying to dispel the hideous noise. 

"However," Mrs. Tyrell's voice softened a little, "it may be that he's still recovering. It's clear he's been through bad times. He was gentleman enough to remove his hat in the store, and you should have seen his hollow cheeks, not to mention he's losing his hair. And the limp, of course, that's a bad one. It will be awhile afore he's ready for dancing, I'll say. In any case," and here Mrs. Tyrell's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, "he asked me to hold his mail for pick up, so I have a name for Storm's End's new owner. He's Stannis Baratheon."

As the entire village was familiar with their postmistress' habit of reading every postcard and shaking every parcel that crossed her postal counter to guess at its contents, no one was too shocked at her breach of confidentiality.


	2. Chapter Two: A New Beginning

Stannis' dreams always began with the sensation of falling through air, like a bird with a broken wing, to inevitably come crashing down to the ground amid the sickening crunch of bones and a pain so agonising, he welcomed the oblivion of passing out. But then the screams would begin. Through vision blurred with pain, he made out the wreckage of the car from which he had been ejected, the twisted metal brought into sharp relief by flickering tongues of flames. And in the heart of the fire, the silhouettes of wife and daughter, trapped and doomed, crying out to him...  
"Shireen! Selyse!"

His own desperate cry always jolted him into wakefulness. He sat up in bed; panting, heart pounding, sweating. More than six months had passed since that fateful night yet the memories of it tormented him relentlessly. He remembered driving home from the hospital, Selyse cradling Shireen's head in her lap in the back seat as their little girl was ill. The fog that night was so dense it was like driving through thick wads of cotton that deadened noise and impaired vision. He did not, could not, see the car driving straight at them until it was too late to avoid the collision. The impact sent him flying through the windshield, ironically saving his life as the wreckages burst into flames.

He was in hospital for a month where the doctors were able to heal most of his bodily injuries. They could do nothing however for his mind and soul, racked with grief and guilt. The subsequent inquest absolved him of all blame, indicting instead the other driver, a foreign missionary, who, confused by the fog and the unfamiliar roads, had driven onto the wrong side of the road. But he could not absolve himself; while his wife and daughter lived he had been an absent husband and father more often than he wanted to be, and he felt that he had failed them even in death. In the months after he was released from hospital he sought solace in his work but even when exhaustion and sleep overtook him, his dreams robbed him of rest. He ended up back in hospital, mentally and emotionally shattered. Dr. Cressen, the old family doctor who had known him since he was a boy, put his foot down and ordered him to take time off work to recuperate in fresh surroundings untainted by the past.

So here he was, having sold off his business, living in as snug a refurbished lighthouse as one could find, in as idyllic a village by the sea as one could hope for, and yet his guilt and grief had tracked him down, like relentless birds of prey.

He gritted his teeth and gingerly got out of bed, hobbling to the single window in his bedroom. Dawn was just breaking, reaching fingers of light through the sky and touching the crests of the incoming waves with the lightest gold tints. He stood watching the sea for a while, mesmerized by the rhythmic rolling of the waves and found to his surprise that his agitation had begun to subside. Perhaps he should go outside? Take a walk on the beach, maybe even a swim? It was not as if he had anything else to do.

He dressed quickly and made his way down the stairs, favoring his bad leg, to the ground floor of the lighthouse which served as a kitchen and sitting room. The main door opened onto the steps that hugged the cliffside and led to the beach. A man with a leg injury like his should have picked a dwelling on level ground but his stubborn, contrary nature was drawn to the challenge of mastering those steps, just as his preference for introversion found its match in the gloriously isolated setting of Storm's End, surrounded by the sea and beach in front and a small acreage of marshland to the landward side.

He finally reached the end of the steps and paused to ease the throbbing in his hip and leg. It was then that he noticed the birds. They were winging in slow, deliberate circles above the sea, keeping sharp eyes out for the fish that the incoming tide was bringing in to shallower regions. Every now and then, a bird would swoop out of its circling flight, down into the sea and emerge triumphant, breakfast in beak. He was no ornithologist, but judging by numbers and variety, the birds were a mix of local and migratory species. This coast must be the winter home of the northern seabirds, he mused, and he was witnessing the early arrivals settle in and make themselves at home.

He hobbled across the beach, stopping short of where the erratic line of driftwood and other marine cast-offs demarcated the high tide. Methodically, he undressed and carefully set his shoes and clothes on the sand above the tideline. Then he walked out into the waves. The landward breeze raised goosebumps on his skin but it was nothing compared to the chill of the sea even this late in the summer. He struck out with his arms when he was deep enough, fighting the waves yet enjoying the bouyancy that supported his legs. For almost an hour, his mind was blessedly clear of recriminations as he swam.

When he eventually made his way back to shore, he was pleasantly surprised to feel somewhat rejuvenated and, for the first time in months, hungry. He dressed quickly, deciding to carry his shoes and walk barefoot. That was how his ears were able to catch the soft, rustling sounds in the bushes by the foot of the lighthouse steps that the crunching of shoes on sand would have obscured. 

He leaned over and parted the dense tangle of twigs and leaves. It was a bird, weakly flapping its wings, trying to get away from him and failing utterly to get off the ground. Now he saw why; saw the ugly bent of the left wing at the wrist. Quickly, he reached in and wrapped his large hands around the body of the bird and lifted it out of the bushes, holding it firmly with his right hand against his body as he labored up the steps. 

The bird struggled against him, and awkwardly but gently, he stroked its head and body with his free hand. That seemed to do the trick; the bird went still, as if deciding to trust him for now. When he finally reached the kitchen, he gently deposited the bird on the table. Beady eyes watched him with curiosity rather fear as he looked around the room. What could he use for a splint? He suddenly remembered the odds and ends of wood that Davos had put away in the corner cupboard, left over from the renovations on the lighthouse. He found a piece of wood thin enough to serve his purpose, grabbed a paring knife to scrape it smooth and to cut a strip from the tea towel, and began to set the bird's wing, supporting it with the splint and binding it close to the body. All the while the bird lay quietly, submitting to his ministrations.

"There you go," he said, feeling foolish for talking to a bird. "We'll keep that on for a few days and see how you do. In the meantime..." 

He got up from the table, filled a saucer with water and held it close to the bird's head. Its beak dipped gratefully into the water. Next, he found the loaf of bread, crumbled a small chunk in his palm, and let the bird peck the crumbs from his hand. The sharp, ticklish sensation of beak against his skin caused an unfamiliar feeling in his cheeks as the corners of his mouth lifted in a shallow smile.

It was the first time he had smiled since that fateful night.


	3. Chapter Three: The First Meeting

Stannis Baratheon was not seen in the village after his first and only foray. Davos turned in his orders and picked up his supplies and mail every fortnight from Mrs. Tyrell. In fact, the other villagers would have completely forgotten that Storm's End had an owner now if it were not for two out-of-the-ordinary things that Mr. Baratheon did. 

The first was that he bought a boat from a retired fisherman and turned out to be a natural at sailing. After a few lessons from Davos, Stannis began to sail on his own, enjoying the rigorous technical demands of piloting his craft through wind and tide as well as the unfettered sensation of being out in the open seas. The fisherfolk respected a man who could master a sailboat and both sides hailed each other when they sailed within sight.

Stannis' second act was not so well-received, however. He hired a few of the village men to help Davos and himself put up a fence around the beach and marshland that was his property. He was careful to preserve public right-of-way access, yet the fence became the talk of the village.

"'e's a good man, Mr. Baratheon," was how Davos always prefaced his explanation each time he was asked about the fence. "'e's been reading about how them birds from the north fly 'ere in the autumn and get killed by the fowlers. 'e wants to make 'is land a safe place where they can't be hunted." 

The novelty of saving birds that Nature clearly intended for sport - for why else would they show up in time for the hunting season? - merely bemused the working men of the village. 

The gentry on the other hand were outraged. They were already smarting from Stannis' uniform rejection of their social overtures to him as the newest property owner in the area; their invitations to tea, to dinner, to church, even to sit upon the board of the village philantrophic fund had been refused with terse apologies, though the last was somewhat sweetened with a generous donation to the fund. Now this antisocial upstart was presuming to interfere with their time-honored pastime. Not a single gathering took place that autumn without ridicule or denunciation being heaped upon Stannis Baratheon. Privately, however, some of the womenfolk who had always disliked the idea of hunting were entranced by his defense of the wildbirds. It made them think that he would be a fascinating fellow to get to know, if only he would leave that lonely lighthouse of his.

*******************************************

One morning in mid-January, there was a knock on the lighthouse door. Stannis was startled. He had returned from what was now his habitual early morning swim in the sea and had just finished his simple breakfast and cleared away the dishes. He'd been planning to go back down to the beach to check on the multitudes of birds that had, in the four months since he had put up the fences, instinctively sensed that this was their safe haven and congregated there. 

Who could be at the door? Today was not Davos' day to work; he was out with the fishing fleet. No one else ever made their way to Storm's End, given its out-of-way location and Stannis' reclusive behavior. He crossed the room, walking more easily than he had when he first arrived. Dr. Cressen had been partly right; the sea air and exercise and the passage of time had been beneficial. His limp was barely noticeable now though the scowl on his face and the tightness of his clenched jaw would still be instantly recognizable to Mrs. Tyrell. Stannis did not like the idea of a visitor at all.

The brusque words of dismissal died on his lips however, when he beheld the figure outside his door. She was tall and slender and young, with windblown red hair dancing about her lovely, tear-streaked face. Liquid blue eyes and trembling lips meet his gaze imploringly. He froze, completely at a loss for what to say or do.

Wordlessly, she held out her arms to him and then he saw the reason why she had come to him. There was a large bird in her arms, white-feathered with black primaries, and red streaks of blood on its nape and mantle.

"Please," she said, her voice low and tremulous from nerves and anguish. "My sister's dog caught it... it's really our fault, we shouldn't have been walking her off her leash..."

He immediately pictured the bird he had plucked out of the bushes some months ago, now healed and indistinguishable from its brethren on his beach. He stepped aside to let her enter.

"Put the bird on the table," he ordered. He was better prepared these days, having a supply of splints, bandages and other first aid items on hand in one of his kitchen drawers. 

She gingerly placed the bird on the table and watched as he soothed it with one hand while examining the bloody patches.

"Is it... will it be...," she began.

"The wounds on the neck and upper back are superficial. The feathers are gone of course but once the flesh heals, they'll probably grow back again," he cut in tersely. "Now, hold her here while I roll her over. " 

He saw the break in the bone leading out of the body as he unfurled the left wing, but the other wing was intact. The belly area and the legs also seemed unharmed. "This needs a splint," he muttered, pointing out the break. "I'm going to do that first and immobilise the wing before I clean the wounds in case she struggles and hurts herself further."

He gathered his supplies and went to work. 

She watched him through demurely lowered eyes. So this was the newcomer who had raised such animosity in the village with his unsociable behavior and his eccentric ideas about protecting birds. He certainly had looked mean and frightening with that ferocious scowl on his face when he opened the door. She had been on the verge of dropping the bird on his threshold and running away. Now that he was concentrating on the bird, however, the scowl had slipped from his face to be replaced by a rather appealing look of attentive compassion. He was older than she was, quite likely in his early to mid thirties, with thinning hair and a clean-shaven jaw that threw into relief his strong, patrician facial structure. His tall, lean, broad-shouldered frame was clad simply in shirt, pants and a plain navy sweater. 

Had she met him in a social setting he definitely would have piqued her interest as a man with controversial ideas that she would love to discuss, but his prickly demeanour would have quickly turned her off. Now, seeing him with his guard down, she found herself captivated by the deftness and gentleness of his long, strong fingers as he skillfully splinted, bandaged, cleaned and dressed the wounds on the bird. All the while, he murmured soothingly to the bird but said nothing to her. She was silent too, an uncharacteristic shyness creeping over her, until he picked up the bird from the table and headed for the door. 

"Wait!" she cried, " Are you going to release the bird?"

He looked at her, his impatience clear on his face. "Of course not. She's not ready to fend for herself. I have a pen on the beach where I keep birds with minor injuries or ailments. That's where I'm taking her."

She looked at him hopefully, biting her lip, waiting to be invited along. But no invitation was forthcoming and as he turned back towards the door, she heard herself calling out, "May I come along?"

He seemed flummoxed by her request. "Follow me," he said at last, rather reluctantly. No one apart from Davos and himself had been to his beach since the fence went up. 

He preceded her down the steps to the beach. At the turn halfway down, the beach itself came into view, dotted with flocks of birds. Some were strutting along the beach, some paddling or wading in the shallow fringes of the waves. Still others soared and swooped in the sky. She was born and bred in the village yet she had never seen so many species in one place at once. She felt exhilarated and absurdly proud of this man she had met less than an hour ago. This was what it was like to do some good in the world.

At the bottom of the steps, he turned towards a secluded part of the beach protected from the wind by a rock outcropping and some straggly bushes. Wire netting had been rolled around some posts and over the top to create a pen. There were a couple of birds in there already. He lifted the top netting and reached in to carefully release the bird - our bird, she thought - into the pen. As he replaced the netting, their bird unsteadily got to her feet and toddled over to the corner where there were two pans; one filled with water, the other grain. She began to peck busily at the food.

"Hah!" He said, the corners of his mouth lifting. "I'm not a betting man but I'd wager she's going to survive!"

The smile, brief as it was, transformed his face. It made him look years younger and so ... so .... her thoughts turned inarticulate as her heartbeat began to race. She became acutely conscious of her untidy hair, the tear stains on her face, the blood stains on her clothes and hands. She felt torn between wanting to run away and wanting to stand here all day with him.

He turned to look at her, expecting a response, and immediately wished he hadn't. She had been looking at him so their eyes met, blue eyes looking into blue eyes for several electrifying seconds before she dropped her eyes and he wrenched his away. His original feeling of awkward helplessness when he first saw her at his kitchen door returned in full force. He had never really known how to behave around women, despite marriage and fatherhood. Pretty young women, especially, were like another race to him, strange and unfathomable.

"Well," she said in a slightly shaky voice, "I really should go now that our, er, the bird, is taken care of. Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Baratheon. I've been forgetting my manners, I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Sansa Stark, by the way."

"Stark?" He asked, "Any relation to Dr. Stark?"

"I'm his daughter. My father's caught a lot of flak lately for helping you move into the lighthouse but he's sticking to his guns that he did the right thing for you."

He frowned. "Why would Dr. Stark catch flak as you say for acting on my behalf?"

Of course he would not know what the village thought of his bird refuge! He didn't socialize, remember? She could have kicked herself for attempting to make that weak joke about her father.

"It's because of what you are trying to do here for the wildbirds. The fowlers complained that they had a poor season last autumn because the birds were hiding behind your fences."

"Storm's End and its lands are mine. It's my right to do what I think is best with my property," His jaw clenched and his frown deepened as he spoke.

"I think what you have done is wonderful and humane," she enthused, hoping to see him smile again. "I have always thought hunting such a cruel and irresponsible sport."

"Only a little more irresponsible than walking an untrained dog off its leash where wildlife is present, Miss Stark," he replied.

She flushed. Why would he be so disagreeable as to remind her of that?

"I am going to write to Dr. Stark to let him know what happened today. He would be the best person to make sure that your sister's dog gets the training it needs," Stannis said, firmly. Then a pained look of embarassment crossed his face. 

"And there is the matter of you coming here by yourself. From what you tell me, the villagers are fond of idiotic idle talk and it would be unfortunate if someone saw you walking up to the lighthouse and put the wrong interpretation on it. It would be best if your father heard from me why you were here today rather than from some wretched busybody."

He was right. People would talk if she had been seen going to Storm's End alone. She had been so anxious to save their bird that propriety had not crossed her mind.

"Thank you," she said meekly, "I suppose I should go now."

"Good day, Miss Stark. You'll pardon me if I don't walk you up to the lighthouse. There are a few things I need to take care of down here." He raised his hand abruptly in farewell before striding away.

She watched the flocks of birds flap and scurry around him as he made his way down the beach before she began her ascent toward the lighthouse and then home. She felt as if there were flocks of birds within her too, flapping and scurrying between attraction and hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this story is on a shorter timeline than "The Snow Goose", I have aged Sansa up. She is seventeen going on eighteen. The next couple chapters will feature the younger Starks. I've left Arya the same age she is in canon, so to fill in the age gap between Sansa and Arya, I've changed the birth order and made Bran the Stark child between the two girls. Rickon or Ricky as I've called him is still the youngest Stark.


	4. Chapter Four: More Meetings

Stannis Baratheon was true to his word. Davos delivered his letter to Dr. Stark the next morning. In reply, Dr. Stark thanked him for his actions, expressed admiration for the bird refuge and invited him to dinner. Stannis sent his regrets, of course. His innate dislike of social occasions was supplemented by the uneasy feeling that he should not be seeing more of Sansa Stark.

Over the next few days a late winter storm blew in. Apart from going out to check on the birds in the pen and on his boat, Stannis spent his time indoors reading. When he started his project, he knew next to nothing about wild birds, so he wrote to a bookseller he had frequented in the city who sent him some excellent volumes. Now he was able to identify the species by sight and recall facts about their diets, migratory patterns, et cetera. Other people probably thought that the birds ought to be grateful to him but Stannis knew that it was he who was grateful to the birds. Beginning with the first one that he had found in the bushes, the birds had occupied his waking mind and given him a positive purpose to chase away the harpies of self-recrimination. If his dreams still tormented him in his sleep, at least he could count on swimming, sailing, and the birds to distract him during the day.

It had bothered him that he could not identify the bird that Sansa had brought to him. He looked through all his books on the migratory species to this coast without finding a match, so he finally turned to a general bird cyclopedia. To his great surprise, he recognized the bird in the entry for the Canadian snow goose. It was thousands of miles away from home, completely blown off its usual migration path. No wonder the dog had been able to seize it so easily, it must have been utterly exhausted from its long and confused flight. He found himself marking the page with a piece of paper before closing the book. It would be interesting to show Sansa what an unusual visitor she had found that day... But no, he really should have no expectations of seeing her again. A pretty young girl like her must have plenty to occupy her days with. Besides, he had the grace to admit that he had hardly been welcoming to her. 

On the first clear morning after the storm, he rose earlier than usual to swim and to examine his property for damage. Fortunately, birds, boat and all had weathered the storm well. He was in the midst of clearing away his breakfast things when the knock sounded on his door. It was probably Davos, come to see if any repairs were needed after the storm. When he opened the door, however, this time there were not one but two girls outside. 

The first one was Sansa, looking prettier than he remembered, with her hair neatly tied back and a smile on her face. The second was a younger girl, about nine or ten years old. Perhaps the same age as Shireen, he thought, with the sudden stab of pain in his heart that every thought of his daughter cost him. The younger girl had a engaging, inquiring, fearless look to her and she spoke first.

"Hello, I'm Arya. I've come to see the bird that Nymeria, that's my dog, caught the other day. Oh," she added hurriedly, as if she had been prodded in the back, "and I want to thank you for taking care of the bird."

"We were wondering if you and the birds were alright after the storm," Sansa added.

"Ah," he said, and because he did not know what else to say, "Let's go down to the beach and you can see the birds for yourself."

Arya kept him busy answering questions about the various bird species as they went down the steps. She also informed him that Nymeria was doing better at walking to heel and promised him solemnly that she would never walk her dog off-leash again until she was certain Nymeria was ready. When they reached the pen, both girls were delighted to see the goose strutting jauntily around and looking well despite the bandages. 

"What kind of bird is she?" Arya asked.

"I had to look that up," he admitted. "She is a Canadian snow goose, halfway across the world from where she usually spends her winters."

"How did she get here then?"

"Quite likely a series of storms blew her off-course and separated her from her flock."

Arya sighed, a look of longing in her eyes. "It must be nice to be able to fly far and wide and see the world. But I wish she wasn't a goose though."

"Now you are being the silly goose, Arya," Sansa teased. "How can the bird help being what it is?"

Arya turned to Stannis in exasperation. "See, this is why I wish it wasn't a goose. Everytime I do something my Mum or my Nan or Sansa doesn't like they call me a goose. Sansa doesn't get it. No one ever calls her a goose, she never does anything wrong!"

"Err..." Stannis felt out of his depth. Shireen had always been a placid child. He grasped at the first thought that came to him. "If you gave the goose a name, you wouldn't have to call it a goose."

"That is a brilliant idea!" Sansa exclaimed, smiling up at him. "It's got such a proud way of holding up its neck, like it's a queen or a princess. Let's call it Snow Queen."

"No," Arya countered. "Snow Queen sounds evil to me, like one of those ice demons in the stories that Nan used to tell us. I think the name should be more about the ability to fly, like... like Windhover."

For some reason both girls looked at him. Somewhere deep in his consciousness, the memory of a favorite childhood story gave him the answer. "Proud as a queen winging through the air... We should call the goose Proudwing."

Both girls emitted cries of delight.

"You do have the best ideas," Sansa enthused. The look she gave him made him feel more awkward than ever.

*******************************************

The Stark girls visited Storm's End every week after that as long as the weather was clear. Sometimes their youngest brother Ricky tagged along. They helped Stannis with the injured birds and minor repairs to the fences and pens, pored over his bird books, and when they discovered that he had a boat, pestered him to take them sailing. Dr. Stark did not own a boat, quite possibly due to the expense of raising a large family on the income of a village physician. The Starks learned the ropes very quickly and made an able and enthusiastic crew.

Mostly, they enjoyed tracking the progress of Proudwing. By early March, the wounds on her nape and back were already healed and little tufts of feathers were growing in. The break in the wing bone was coming along nicely. The Starks were certain Proudwing had learned her name since she came waddling up each time they called for her at the edge of the pen. Stannis scoffed at that. On pain of being called a spoilsport, he also forbade them from feeding the goose out of their hands.

"She's a wild bird, not a pet. If you make her dependent on you, she won't be able to fend for herself when time comes for her to leave."

One morning in late March, they watched as Stannis scooped Proudwing out of the pen and undid the bandages that held the splint to its wing. Proudwing stepped in circles at first, furling and unfurling her wing. Then, quickening her steps, she raced down toward the sea. Both wings flapped, spread out, caught the draft, and Proudwing soared into the air.

The Starks cheered and Stannis, reserved though he usually was, cracked a smile.

"Do you think Proudwing will fly home now?" Arya asked, her eyes following the path of the goose in the air.

"In the next month or so, she'll fly north first and then she'll probably fly to North America from the polar regions," Stannis replied.

"Does that mean we'll never see her again?" Sansa exclaimed in dismay.

"Many of the birds that wintered here have begun to fly north," Stannis said, indicating the fewer numbers of birds on the beach. "They will come back to this coast in the autumn but there is no guarantee that they will return to this exact place."

"If I were a bird, I would come right back here," Ricky said staunchly.

"Me too," Sansa agreed and smiled at Stannis.

*******************************************

Nearly a month later, Proudwing flew away amidst a flock of pink-footed geese. Stannis was working on his boat and would have missed her departure except that he heard her call, a shriller noise than the warbling of the pink-feet. He looked up to see her flying in circles above the boat, as if to say farewell, then she banked sharply and joined the other birds in their V-shape formation heading north. He looked out for their return all day but when night fell and none of the birds returned, he knew that she was gone.

He sent word to the Starks via Davos the next day. He assumed, with Proudwing gone, that they would stop visiting him, and he could not but admit to a sense of loss. With Arya and Ricky, he felt as if he had been given a second chance at fatherhood. He wished he had been able to spend more time with Shireen, but back then, work and duty had claimed too much of his life. Now, when he succeeded in teaching Arya and Ricky to sail and to identify the birds they saw around them, he felt something close to paternal pride.

But he could not think of Sansa as another daughter. She was only seven years older than Arya, hardly eighteen, so he was old enough to be her father. Yet the emotions she aroused in him were anything but fatherly. If he still woke up in the mornings panting and sweating from his dreams, they were oftener and oftener not dreams of the accident. He was grateful that he had made his morning swim a daily habit, for the calming effects of the cold sea water on his mind and body. When the Starks were around, he did his best to focus on the younger ones, to limit his interactions with Sansa to the basic courtesies. 

But she loomed large in his awareness despite all his efforts. She always had a ready response to anything he said. She caught the humor in all his occasional dry quips, and he enjoyed hearing her musical laugh in spite of himself. It seemed as if she must constantly be looking at him because if he even glanced her way inadvertently, their eyes would meet and hold till he looked away with a sense of guilt. When they went sailing, she would not scramble in and out of the boat like Arya or Ricky but wait for him to offer her his hand to help her. The feeling of her soft dainty hand in his was both thrilling and shaming.

Stannis had never felt this way about any woman, not even his wife. He'd respected her and liked her but he had not loved her nor desired her. They had been the two quiet ones in their social circle, thrown together for convenience. Coming of age in the Roaring Twenties, he had appreciated having a sober, sensible companion to attend family and work events with, instead of having to deal with giddy flapper girls. After her father sat him down for one of those "what are your intentions?" talks, Stannis had done his duty and asked Selyse to marry him. On many levels, their marriage was a success. They were faithful and considerate to each other, they discussed matters sensibly instead of resorting to screaming matches, and once Shireen came along, they loved her in their quiet, undemonstrative way. And yet...

It had taken a woman half his age to awaken the romantic yearning that he had not known himself capable of. And that was why it was wrong. Sansa deserved a better, younger man. No, Proudwing was gone and never coming back, given that her habitual wintering grounds were in North America, and that was just as well. There should be no reason to see Sansa again.


	5. Chapter Five: The Return

Stannis was wrong about the Starks, of course. They continued to show up weekly and once school let out for the summer, to introduce him to another member of the large Stark clan, Bran. Bran, quiet, serious-minded and bookish, was between Sansa and Arya in age. For most of the year he was away at the preparatory boarding school that he attended with his oldest brother, Robb, who had chosen to spend the summer at the country home of one of his schoolmates while Bran returned home. 

Stannis and Bran hit it off right away. While out sailing or walking on the shores with the other Stark siblings, they fell into discussions of various social and political issues, and found themselves in agreement despite their generational gap. Sansa frequently contributed well-informed thoughts to their discussion, which gratified Stannis even though he had resolved to distance himself from her. 

Their main topic of conversation in the summer of 1939 was the clear signs of war in Europe. Germany had been given a free pass by the other European powers in the annexation of Czechoslovakia and now Hitler was threatening to do the same to Poland. The heavily debated question was whether Britain and its allies should resort to war to stop him. 

"Robb would certainly be conscripted if we declare war but I'm not quite old enough," Bran lamented.

"You may not be happy about this but your mother will certainly feel differently. I know my mother was glad that I was not old enough to fight in the Great War," Stannis countered. "If war does come this time, though, I will sign up."

"Are you really thinking of going to the frontline to fight?" Sansa asked, her eyes wide.

"The country will need all the fighting men it can get. Great or small, we must all do our duty," Stannis declared.

He felt touched by the grave look of concern on Sansa's face.

*******************************************

By mid August, the early birds had begun arriving on the coast for their winter stay. The miracle happened a week later, just after Bran had returned to school. The Starks and Stannis had just returned from a sailing trip and were cleaning out the boat and stowing away the sails. Stannis was a stickler for doing everything right; when Ricky groaned at being told to coil up a line again, correctly this time, Stannis merely shrugged and observed, "There's a reason the term 'ship-shape' exists."

As they worked, the shrill call of a bird came to their ears. At first it was distant, then it grew louder and louder as a familiar black and white shape approached and gracefully wheeled in the air above them. It was hard to tell who among them came to the realization first, but all at once, mounting excitement spilled into disbelieving joyous cries.

"It's Proudwing! She's come back to us!"

The bird landed easily on the beach and strutted around the crew who had jumped out to meet her. It truly was Proudwing, holding her head high as regally as before. She had remembered them and returned to Storm's End.

*******************************************

Barely more than a week after Proudwing's return, on September 3rd, Britain declared war on Germany. One month later, the Starks reported that Robb had received his call-up papers. Davos' three oldest sons had received theirs as well.

Stannis did not wait for his call-up but presented himself as a volunteer. At his physical check-up, however, the military doctors expressed concern about the injuries he had sustained in the accident. His limp was barely noticeable these days but the doctors were doubtful that his hip and leg would stand up to the rigors of frontline fighting. Ultimately, he was offered a desk job at the nearby naval base. 

At first, it upset him to be relegated to a passive job. Then he remembered what he had said to Sansa and Bran that whether great and small, everyone had to do their duty. He'd been assigned a smaller duty than he had hoped for but he would do his best, nevertheless. The one advantage of his job was the proximity of the base to the lighthouse. He could still live at home and keep an eye on the birds.

Sansa had graduated from the ladies' academy in June. The plan had been for her to spend a few months in the city in autumn to expand her horizons but now that the country was at war, it seemed too self-indulgent to think of shopping, plays and parties. Instead, she decided to enrol in a basic nursing course at the local hospital, knowing that such skills would be useful as the war progressed.

For the next half year, the country experienced the calm before the storm. Men were drilled, munitions stockpiled, and defensive measures such as blackouts and evacuations were practised as the nation waited for the enemy to make the first move. 

The Starks continued to visit Proudwing and Stannis. Spring came and many of the birds responded to their instincts and flew north. Yet Proudwing remained.

"This time last year Proudwing had flown away," Sansa observed. "I wonder if she knows the world is at war and she wants to be safe here with you." Sansa was looking at Stannis as she spoke, her expressive eyes luminous with an emotion he could not decipher.

What he wanted to tell her was something as stupidly romantic as "Proudwing's here as I am because of you." Instead he looked away and quoted something dry and factual about the seasonality of bird migration. Sansa seemed to suppress a sigh; she did not seem to like his response at all but she tactfully steered the conversation to another subject.

By now, Stannis had long acknowledged that he was hopelessly in love with Sansa. He loved her for her beauty, her good sense, and her readiness to do her duty in time of war. She would make a lucky man a good wife some day but he could never envision himself as that man. His honorable soul had vowed never to put her in the awkward position of learning about feelings that she could never return, so he had striven to keep a tighter grip than usual on his emotions around her.

Stannis did not know that, for him as for his country, this was the calm before the storm.


	6. Chapter Six: The Storm

The storm broke in early May of 1940, when German troops swiftly overran France, Belgium, and Netherlands. British troops were surrounded and forced to retreat to the sea at Dunkirk. Between German aerial bombardment on land and the British transports and destroyers at sea that were too large to come close enough to rescue them, the soldiers were trapped on the beaches like injured birds. 

When the Admiralty called on owners of smaller boats to help evacuate the men to safety, Stannis responded at once. All the idealism within his reserved nature ignited his conviction that this was the highest duty that he could do for his country. He was granted permission by his commanding officer and went home to get his boat ready. Many of the men in the village felt as he did; they too were putting out to sea to bring home "our boys." Stannis was in good company.

The whole village was roused for action. They offered supplies - water, food, drink, blankets, sailing paraphernalia - and help to repair and load up the boats that would set out. In the village pub, the men who had volunteered were clapped on the back and toasts were drunk to their names. Stannis accepted the supplies but steered clear of the carousing to go back to Storm's End and load his boat himself.

Sansa found him at the little dock that she had been familiar with for more than a year now. He was methodically stowing away the supplies, being sure to balance the boat and to wrap blankets and food in waterproof cloths.

"Stannis!" she cried, "They say down at the village that you're one of them that's going to Dunkirk."

"Sansa... I wasn't expecting you today. Where's Arya and Ricky?"

"They're not with me. I came straight from the village when I heard. Stannis... Stannis, it's dangerous. There's airplanes and bombs and they say there's mines in the sea too..."

"Sansa, it's no more dangerous than what any soldier is called on to face in war. Robb and Davos' boys might be out there in Dunkirk waiting for rescue. And if you were down in the village, you know I am not going alone. There will be hundreds of boats crossing the Channel."

Tears came to Sansa's eyes. "I don't want you to get hurt, Stannis... or die. I... I couldn't live with that."

Stannis stepped up onto the dock and stood to face Sansa. He had always found it hard to express his feelings but the unusual circumstances gave him courage.

"You have been an important part of my life for more than a year now, Sansa; you and your siblings. I'm proud that you treasure my friendship equally but if anything happens to me, well, you are young, you are... beautiful ... you have a life ahead of you to live and to enjoy, regardless of war." 

"Stannis, is friendship all that you feel for me? Have I been a fool all this year or more to hope that you would care for me? That you might want to walk out with me like some of the village boys who won't leave me alone?" Sansa's tears were streaming down her cheeks before she could check herself. She turned away from him, shoulders shaking, hand brushing tears across her face.

Stannis was struck dumb. He had been so blind and so stupid for so long. "Sansa," his voice was hoarse, "I couldn't say anything to you, I... I'm not the right man for you. I'm too old. When I was married before, I was not a good husband..."

Sansa turned back slowly, looking up at him. "Why don't you let me be judge of who is the right man for me? I've known you for more than a year now. I know what a good and dutiful man you are. I've seen the good you have done for the birds. I've seen how good you are with my siblings ... oh, Stannis, I don't care that you are older. I like you being older." 

They each took a step toward the other. Arms went around arms, lips found lips, softly, tentatively at first, then hungrily as if they were making up for lost time. 

When they finally pulled apart, Sansa said breathlessly but with resolve, "Take me with you. I want to help."

Stannis shook his head reluctantly. "I would, but it's a small boat as you know. If you come along, that's one fewer soldier I can pick up."

"Then tell me you love me and will come back to me."

"I love you and I will come back to you," Stannis said obediently. "I've loved you from the moment I saw you outside my door with Proudwing."

Sansa laughed merrily. "You were such a grump that day. All frowns and scowls just because I dared to darken your door. Well, it worked for me. I've loved you from that day too. There's something about a man who looks so mean and yet treats a bird with such kindness and gentleness..."

Stannis would have frowned but somehow his facial muscles would not arrange themselves that way. "If you are done laughing at me, maybe you can help me finish packing?"

"Certainly," Sansa murmured, " but first... " She raised her lips for another kiss.

When everything had been stowed away and Stannis had checked that he had all the equipment he needed, he said, "You should go home, Sansa. We won't be taking off till about midnight and I suppose I should try to get some rest before that."

They clung to each other in farewell before reluctantly parting. 

Sansa couldn't help crying again. She left Stannis standing on the docks, watching as she made her way across the beach and up the lighthouse steps. At the top, she looked back. He raised one arm in salute. Above him, Proudwing sailed lazily on the wind then flew down to perch on the mast of the boat.

A moment of superstitiousness seized Sansa. 

"Yes, Proudwing, bring him back to me as you came back yourself," she whispered. Then she turned towards home.


	7. Chapter Seven: Storm's End

Davos Seaworth was despondent when he should have been at the top of the world. Like the other men who had returned from their mission in Dunkirk, he had been acclaimed and feted. Drink had flowed freely, gifts from grateful admirers had stacked up by his door, and he had even been interviewed by the big city newspaper and had his photograph taken. Life would be good except that his boss, Stannis Baratheon, had yet to return from Dunkirk. 

Davos held Mr. Baratheon in high esteem for being a fair and generous employer. Mr. Baratheon didn't just give orders; he rolled up his sleeves and pitched in. The Seaworths got a basket of goose and trimmings at Christmas, even though Davos was certain that Mr. Baratheon himself - bless his heart, he didn't seem to care what he ate or drank - was probably eating a cold sandwich up at the lighthouse. When Mr. Baratheon sent in orders to his bookseller in the city, he would add a book or two for the younger Seaworth boys who were enrolled in the village school. And then there was that time when Davos had brought the wrong supplies back from the store and had to admit shamefacedly that he could not read. Instead of sneering at him, Mr. Baratheon had offered, in a businesslike manner, "If you have an hour to spare after work, I can show you the rudiments." Davos had Mr. Baratheon to thank for being able to read for himself what the big city reporter had written of him in that morning's newspaper. 

When the boats had left the village for Dunkirk in a loose flotilla, following the lead boats captained by Royal Navy seamen, Mr. Baratheon had been sailing a little ahead of Davos. Above Mr. Baratheon's boat flew that strange white and black bird that he had saved for the Starks. Davos had been around the lighthouse a few times while the Starks visited; enough to notice the looks that the older Miss Stark was giving Mr. Baratheon. He recognized what those looks meant, even if Mr. Baratheon himself seemed oblivious. So, when Davos made enquiries of the men who had returned from Dunkirk, he did it for Miss Stark's sake as much as his own. 

Most of the men recalled glimpses of Stannis Baratheon in his boat, doing what they were all there to do; picking up soldiers from the beach and ferrying them to the waiting ships in deeper waters. All the while, gunfire and explosives had rained on them. Almost every boat had suffered damage of some extent. Some had been sunk and the men lost but Davos held out hope that Mr. Baratheon had survived; over the course of the week, many of the village's boats and men came straggling back. He even went out in his own boat as far up and down the coast as he could with the wartime restrictions to see if he could spot Mr.Baratheon's boat. As the days passed, however, Davos began to lose heart. So far, no one who had returned had seen any sign of Mr. Baratheon or his boat beyond Dunkirk. A good man was likely at the bottom of the sea, died doing his duty. 

That evening, as Davos made repairs to his nets, a young woman approached his boat. He recognized her at once. It was Miss Stark. He stepped up to the wharf to meet her. Her lovely face was solemn but resolute.

"Davos," she began, "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Anything I can do to 'elp, Miss Stark, I'm your servant."

Sansa was trying to be brave but her lip trembled as she said, "I hear you have been out in your boat searching for Stan... I mean, Mr. Baratheon."

"Aye, miss. It grieves me that I 'aven't a clue where he is since I lost sight of him once we got to work at Dunkirk."

"Davos, would you take me in your boat tomorrow morning? I can't bear to sit quietly and wait for news anymore, I need to be doing something. I know a little bit about sailing, Mr. Baratheon taught me. I won't be a hindrance to you."

"No, miss, you won't be no 'indrance. But it's been nearly nine days now since the last boat came back from Dunkirk... Mr. Baratheon might be..."

"No, Davos, I refuse to think that. Please, at least let me try once to look for him."

"Be here at dawn then, Miss Stark. I will be ready to sail."

*******************************************

Davos and Sansa set out at dawn. Davos showed her on his map the areas he had covered in his previous trips and suggested that they sail as far west as they could. He had not gone in that direction before because it was heading away from Dunkirk. By late morning, however, Davos was beginning to feel uneasy as they entered into treacherous waters where there had been reports of U-boats and mines and the likelihood of German air strikes. He wanted to turn back; it was one thing to risk his own life, quite another to risk that of a young lady's. 

But Sansa shook her head. "Just a little further, please, Davos." She had been scanning the horizon with binoculars all this while and had seen nothing, but still her heart would not let her give up. 

They sailed futilely for another hour or so until Davos insisted upon turning back. Sansa could only nod her agreement. She did not trust herself to speak for fear of crying. She had known this attempt was a long shot but of course, she had dreamed that she would see Stannis sailing up to her in the open sea. He would be frowning - even in her dream of a miracle, she'd preferred to imagine him frowning - and he would call out to her, "There's no need to come find me, Sansa. I said I would come back to you." And then they would both sail home and live happily ever after. But it was not to be.

As Davos' boat neared the village, Sansa felt a sudden longing take hold of her. "Davos, do you think you could sail by Storm's End? I would like to see it." She didn't add, "for the last time," because she knew she would break down.

Sansa heard it when Davos' boat rounded the cliff that the lighthouse stood on. Davos did too but he did not recognize it as Sansa did. It was the shrill call of a bird, high in the sky. Quickly, Sansa trained her binoculars on it. A large bird, white with black primaries, was circling above the sea a small distance from the lighthouse.

Sansa began to tremble. It was Proudwing, she felt sure of it. But what was beneath her? Whatever it was, it was riding too low in the sea to see. There was no sign of sails or even a mast. Her heart seized up with fear. Was the boat damaged? Was Stannis even in it? Was he...?

"Davos! Tack towards where that bird is flying in the sky, there! Do you see it? It's Proudwing!"

Davos performed the maneuver, bringing his boat around and heading towards the patch of sea under the circling Proudwing. As they covered the distance, Proudwing's cries grew louder. Then they saw the badly listing boat, minus mast and sail. Waves were washing up over the sides as the sea tossed it about. It was Stannis' boat, but where was he? 

Sansa leaned over the bow, heart in mouth, willing Davos' boat to go faster. They finally got close enough to see the gunfire damage to the sides of the boat and the broken stump of the mast. A figure was huddled by the stump, sitting crookedly in the water that the boat had taken on.

"It's Stannis," Sansa whispered, overwhelmed. "Oh, let him be alive!"

"'ere, Miss Sansa, take the tiller and keep this boat steady," Davos instructed. "I'm going to throw a line and tow Mr. Baratheon's boat to Storm's End's dock."

Scarcely had Davos reached the dock and moored his boat then Sansa jumped out. She picked up the line that Stannis always kept on the dock, neatly coiled and ready for use, and tethered Stannis' wrecked boat, pulling it up close to the dock. 

Then she was down in the wreck, kneeling in the water by Stannis' still figure, heedless of the way the sinking boat rocked under her extra weight.

Stannis was sun-burned, bloody, and unconscious. His long limbs seemed to be at unnatural angles but he had lashed himself to the broken mast so his face had stayed above water. She felt for a pulse the way she had been taught to in her nursing course. It was faint and erratic, but he was alive.

Sansa cradled Stannis' head in her arms and gave herself up to the luxury of joyful tears. She caressed his hollow, leathery, bearded cheeks, kissed his parched lips and his swollen, crusted eyelids and crooned his name in between kisses. 

In that part deep within Stannis' soul that belonged to her, he heard her voice. His eyelids unstuck and her beautiful face swam blurrily into view. The corners of his mouth lifted unsteadily in a smile.

"Sansa," he rasped, "I've come back to you. Like Proudwing, I have returned."

Above them, Proudwing soared and alighted on Storm's End, never to leave again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the readers who have given this story a chance and to those who have left kudos and comments.


End file.
